Page 7

CHAPTER 6

GUNNAR

Texts from my brother Odin start firing at me in the middle of the night. He must have woken up to an earful from our mom. He’s in England for grad school because, I remind myself, he blew out his Achilles tendon, and his professional sports career was gone in a fraction of a second. This life is fleeting. The endorsements, the money, the opportunity to play pro hockey…it’s fragile. Odin is the entire reason I left college early to go pro. His injury destroyed him emotionally, but it rattled our whole family. I need to take advantage of this career while I can because it could be gone tomorrow.

ODIN

You got married? Like legally married?

ODIN

To a human woman? Without introducing her to Mom and Dad? What the hell is wrong with you?

ODIN

Why didn’t the twins stop you?

ODIN

You better smooth this over with Mom. She can’t keep calling me in the middle of the night. Thora is trying to sleep.

Oh, sure, I bet it’s Thora bothered by all this. I power off my phone and throw it across the room. My sleep is so messed up, and I have goalie training before team practice in…well, in a few hours. I stare at the ceiling trying to come up with things to tell my parents about why Emerson and I are staying married, until my alarm goes off and I drag my bleary ass to shower.

I don’t usually drink coffee, but I figure Emerson might, so I brew a pot and chug down some of that. Feeling more human, I make my way up to the practice facility north of the city. A lot of the guys live in the suburbs up here, but my family has always lived in the city. I can’t imagine moving away from my family. I realize it’s incredibly lucky that my hometown team picked me, but again, that’s because my dad brought them more than one cup. I’m sure they’re banking on his genes helping me more than they apparently do.

My commute is the opposite of most, so there isn’t much traffic as I hop on the highway and think about my situation. It’s pretty messy.

From what Emerson has told me about her family, she had a strict upbringing and didn’t have the most loving home life. I’m hoping I can deflect some attention by talking about giving her space to figure out the next steps.

Mom’s entire legal career has been dedicated to supporting women and families, which will probably work in my favor. I just need to drop a few hints about Emerson’s dad shaking her shoulders at the train station, and Mom will have to be restrained from sending an assassin after him. Dad will be the one who holds Mom back.

Feeling secure in that plan, I head to the locker room, gear up, and meet Anton, our veteran Ukrainian goalie coach, along with Grentley—not dressed due to his hip injury but hovering to gloat or feel secure in his status as the real starting goalie. Or something.

Anton warms me up with a thousand low shots between sprints and on-ice stretches. Grentley glares from the side with his arms crossed, grunting every time I miss the puck. The hour passes quickly, and the rest of the team starts straggling onto the ice, which is when the trash talk begins in earnest.

Our center flicks the puck between my legs into the net. “Your wife teach you that move, Stag?”

A winger aims low, and I do the splits to save the shot. “I see your hips are nice and limber, Romeo.”

Usually, the teasing is funny. Expected. My head is a mess today, and I know I shouldn’t, but I’m taking it personally. When one of the twins reaches around the net from behind and sneaks the puck past my skate, I throw my helmet off and slam my brother into the boards.

His expression is typical: laughter. I can’t even tell if it’s Alder or Tucker at this point. I’m trying to yank his helmet off his dumb face when Coach blows a whistle, and I back off. “Gunnar. My office after.”

The rest of practice is depressing. I feel like I’m skating through half-melted ice, trying to stop a hailstorm with a colander. I say nothing in the locker room while I change out of my gear and hurry through another shower, making sure to scrub hard enough to scour off the stench of my goalie pads. After practice, I usually have a whole moisturizing ritual, but that will have to wait. My mind immediately flicks to a fantasy of Emerson rubbing my salve into my thighs, and that will have to wait, too.

I make my way to Coach’s office and sit waiting for him, my knee bouncing a thousand times a minute before he slides into his chair with a sigh. “What was that about, G Stag?”

I breathe in and out through my nose. “I’m not playing my best, Coach.”

“Well, that’s obvious. You’ve got bags under your eyes, and you’re twitchy. Where’s your focus?”

I shake my head. “I’ve got some personal stuff going on…and it’s not an excuse but I slept for shit because my brother kept calling me from England.”

He furrows his brow. “Which brother? There are more of you?” He mutters under his breath about thinking he had the whole family locked down, and I grin.

“My oldest brother doesn’t play hockey, sir. He was upset about, you know, the marriage thing.”

Coach frowns. “I saw something about that online. Or my daughter did.” I tap my fingers on my knees, looking down at the silicone wedding band I have yet to remove. It already feels like it belongs on my hand. I briefly notice that my hand looks like my dad’s hand now, with beat-up knuckles and a thick wedding band.

Coach taps his keyboard with his ring finger, which is similarly banded. “G Stag, I’ve been married for twenty-five years. Your home life is supposed to support your professional life, kid.” I nod as he talks. “I don’t need to explain the importance of mindset to you. You will leave this office and get your shit together, mentally. You will get back into your sleep routine, eat right, and show up to practice ready to perform. I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

When I don’t say anything, he raises his eyebrows until I clear my throat. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

Coach flicks a hand, dismissing me, and he’s glowering at his computer monitor by the time I shuffle out the door.

I opt for a guided meditation audio on my drive home, repeating after the computerized voice that I will act and move with intention. Except, instead of thinking about my game, I’m imagining bringing Emerson to a family dinner and introducing her to all the Stags. I’m actually excited at the idea of showing her off to them. She’s luscious, with curves for days and a dazzling smile she only lets out occasionally.

Thinking of her sitting in the Partners and Wives section of our games has me half hard, and imagining her with a G Stag jersey on takes me the rest of the way there.

I open the door to my—our—apartment and halt in my tracks when I hear music coming from the trophy room. She must be playing again.

I walk closer to the beautiful melody until I can just see through the open door. Emerson’s seated on a bench in the middle of the room, where she cleared out a space among the stacks of plaques and medals I haven’t yet taken the time to display properly. It’s like my past is her audience as she wraps her legs around that beautiful, red instrument. She’s wearing a sleeveless top, and I watch as one toned arm moves up and down the neck of the instrument and the other moves that hairy stick along the strings.

This isn’t a gentle or delicate process. Emerson digs in, swaying as she moves, gripping the instrument with visible effort. But the sound seems effortless, big and deep, mournful. I didn’t know I knew that word, but it’s what I’m hearing as she coaxes sad notes that hang in the air or dance around the room. I become aware that I’m holding my breath, gripping the door frame as I watch my wife create something incredible.

She plays a final deep, long note and opens her eyes, locking onto mine, and her face transforms into a smile. She’s happy to see me. I nearly faint, overcome by her talent and the fact that this stranger, my spouse, is glad that I’m nearby.

“Hey.” She sets her cello down on its side and rests the stick thing on top of it. “How was your day?” Emerson crosses the room to me, fluffing her hair and rolling her shoulders. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on her skin, like she’d been playing for hours. I wonder how salty she’d taste if I licked her.

But she’s waiting for an answer, so I clear my throat, shake my head, and smile back at her. “Better now that I got to hear that. What was that song called?”

She opens her mouth to respond, but we’re interrupted by a series of rapid-fire pings on my phone—texts with my parents’ custom sound effect.

I hold up a finger apologetically and slide my phone from my pocket. I groan and show the screen to Emerson.

MOM

I need to meet my daughter-in-law.

MOM

You don’t have a game on Sunday. Come to brunch.

MOM

This isn’t optional, Gunnar.